#the bit where Feyre's servants are whispering outside her door and Tamlin's thoughts are going wild is so regency coded and I love it

[foxcort]

tagging @dopeartisanprincess and @feynessupremacy just in case 👀

The Gown

Pairing: Tamlin x Feyre (Feylin)

Word Count: 1.5k

Rating: T

Summary: Inspired by a prompt @foxcort once wrote (that I cannot find but have never forgotten), in which Tamlin sees Feyre in The Wedding Dress for the very first time.

Also tagging @bookishfeylin, who loves Feylin, too. Sorry if I missed anyone else who might have wanted a tag!

For those who want to read it on AO3, it's there, too, but it's here in its entirety below the cut:

“Forgive the intrusion, your High Lordship.”

As one, Tamlin and his closest advisors looked up from the map spread out on his desk to see the High Priestess standing in the doorway. He ignored Lucien’s grimace and cleared his throat. “Yes, Ianthe. What is it?”

She dipped her veiled head in a graceful bow and continued, “I know it is a most inopportune time—” He could hear Lucien’s metal eye roll in its socket. “—but your consort wishes to speak with you in her private quarters right away.”

“Feyre?” Tamlin startled as he realized that Ianthe was alone. She and Feyre had been inseparable lately, or so he thought. “Is anything wrong?”

She folded her hands in front of her and replied lightly, “It is nothing I would have dared trouble you for, knowing how busy you are, but… she did insist on seeing you…”

As Tamlin rounded the corner of his desk with Lucien close behind, Ianthe added, “Alone.”

He and Lucien exchanged worried glances.

After a moment’s consideration, he clapped his hand on Lucien’s shoulder and told him, “Take over for me. I’m sure Ianthe can offer some guidance until my return.”

He caught Lucien glowering in the priestess’s direction, who was positively glowing, but if Feyre needed him as badly as Ianthe said, he couldn’t allow either of them to distract him. He would find a way to make it up to his emissary later.

Tamlin willed himself to walk out of the study, meanwhile every instinct screamed at him to winnow to Feyre’s side, but she hadn’t been sleeping well lately. He didn’t want to frighten her or risk upsetting her further. His concern for her only grew when he appeared at the end of the hall outside her private chambers, and a huddle of servants were whispering outside her door. They fell silent as he approached, and curtsied deeply before parting to let him pass. He could feel their expectant eyes upon him as he stood in front of her closed door and… hesitated. It was never closed in the middle of the day. While he wasn’t in the habit of knocking on doors in his own home, he did call through the opening as he entered, so that he wouldn’t startle her.

“Feyre?” The chamber was empty, but her lilac-and-pear scent filled the room. He stepped in and turned his head. “Where are you?”

Something rustled from behind the dressing screen in the corner. “Are you alone?” a miserable voice wobbled.

He gently closed the door behind him. “Completely,” he said cautiously, stepping closer. “What’s the matter?”

A loud sniff, then more rustling as she stepped into view. Rather, her dress rustled into view before she did. It was… It was… huge.

She looked so miserable and—and poofy that he couldn’t help it. He burst out laughing. His body shook so hard that he had to grab a nearby chair and sink into it. His howls of laughter filled the room.

“I knew it,” she wailed, sinking to her knees in the middle of the floor as her skirts billowed around her. He should have gone to her. He should have comforted her. But by the gods of this world and the next, his knees were too weak to carry him.

He had been so worried, it was a relief to know this was all it was. Feeling breathless and lightheaded, he managed to lower himself to the floor and crawl over to where she knelt, a tiny pathetic figure surrounded by mountains of tulle. It was the least he could do to ask for her forgiveness, not that he deserved it for laughing so hard.

Still on his hands and knees, he apologized. “I didn’t mean to laugh,” he said gently, although his lips were still twitching. “You look beautiful.”

She shot him a glare, then ripped the garland of white roses from her hair and complained, “I look ridiculous.”

As she frowned at the garland and began turning it over in her hands, he let out a sigh, releasing the last of his mirth at her expense. He patted down the nearest puff and managed to sit beside her on the floor. Resting his arms on his bent knees, he leaned over and tried to catch her eye, which was difficult to do considering the size of her dress sleeves.

“You look ridiculously beautiful,” he said sincerely.

And she did. Despite her flushed cheeks and pouting expression, being changed from human to High Fae had only enhanced her unique beauty. Her skin was still freckled, her mouth was still full and soft, and her eyes, though teary, sparkled like stars on Solstice Night.

She looked away and let out a disgusted sigh. “I look like a dressmaker’s doll,” she muttered, tossing the garland away and onto the rug.

His smile faded as he regarded the cast-off roses and the rumpled ribbons. He reached for her tattooed hand, the hand that wore his emerald ring, and curled his fingers around hers. “Do you hate it that much?”

She wouldn’t meet his gaze. “It’s… it’s just not me,” she said quietly.

“Would you prefer a tunic and leggings?”

She turned her head at that and stared at him.

He smiled. “Whether you walk down the aisle in a gown, or fighting leathers, or a tunic and leggings, it wouldn’t matter. I’d marry you just the same.”

She bit her lip and dropped her gaze to look at their joined hands. “Ianthe said I have to make a statement,” she said quietly, tightening her fingers around his. “Something about roses and Spring…” She sniffed and loosened her grip to hug her arms. “But I was always your thorn… Especially now.”

He looked her over. Now that he was through laughing, he could see that the layers of tulle did appear to resemble an upside down rose. The bodice even had tendrils of vines embroidered on the bodice. It seemed that while Ianthe had taken him literally when he mentioned how much roses meant to him and Feyre, the dress itself was not as ridiculous as he had first assumed.

“While what Ianthe said may be true,” he said, reaching out to tuck a loose spiral of golden-brown hair behind her ear, “it is not the dress that matters, but you.”

When she remained silent, he gently lifted her gaze.

“If you ask me to, I’ll marry you tomorrow, beneath the singing willow,” he said ardently. “No gowns. No guests. No pageantry… Just you, me, and Lucien… and Ianthe to marry us.”

Feyre’s soft, almost hopeful smile faded. “You would really do that… for me?” she whispered.

He nodded. “I love you,” he said softly, gazing into her starry eyes. “Thorns and all. And I always will.”

A small, crystal tear slid down her cheek as she gave him a small, sad, trembling smile. “I love you,” she whispered.

He slid his hand around her neck and leaned in to press his lips to hers. She kissed him back, and then kissed him again, and he could not taste her tears.

When they parted, she sighed, and her breath was warm against his mouth. Dropping her gaze, she reached up and straightened his collar. “I can’t ask you to do that,” she said quietly. “This wedding is too important to so many people… I can’t be selfish.”

“You sacrificed yourself Under the Mountain,” he reminded her. “You’re allowed to be a little selfish.”

She smiled sadly at him. “Not if I want to marry you,” she replied. “High Lord.”

He sighed. She was right, of course, which was why he had never wanted this position in the first place. But he was the only one left in his family line. If he denounced his title so soon after the chaos that was Amarantha, there was no telling who The Cauldron would choose next, or what they would do in his stead.

“Besides,” Feyre continued, bringing him back to the present. “I’ll have you all to myself after the wedding. I can be selfish then.”

His eyebrows rose at that, then lowered as he looked her over. “Um… How selfish?” he asked, letting his gaze linger over her low, fitted bodice.

She smiled a slow, sly smile as she caught his eye. “Selfish enough to ask you to tear off this gown and shred it to ribbons for me… my lord.”

He nearly started purring at the thought. He leaned back on his hands, then reached over and ran a finger over the laced ribbons keeping her outer corset closed. “To ribbons, you say?” he murmured, summoning a claw as he slowly drew it down her back, so it gently snagged on the lacing on the way down. “Like… these ribbons?”

He could hear her breathing quicken even as she smiled up at him, and it made her bosom swell in a most tempting way. “If you think you can,” she whispered.

His answer was a low growl. “You doubt me?”

“Never,” she said with a tempting, teasing smile, then suddenly turned her back on him. As she pulled her loose waves over her shoulder, exposing her long, pale neck to him, she turned her head head and added, “But perhaps we should practice first.”

His claw slid cleanly through the top lacing. “Perhaps.”

[harmonyindark245]

Secrets [3]

Summary: King's Archeron's kingdom is made up of secrets, which include both betrayal and treason. When the Prince of Velaris and his Inner Circle visit the kingdom, these secrets start revealing themselves. How will these affect the 3 Archeron Princesses, who themselves have a very deadly secret?

AN: All characters belong to Sarah J. Maas.

Warnings: Slight Mature Language, Alcohol Consumption

Word Count - 2.6k

Hope you all enjoy!

Masterlist

Cassian had been correct when he had said that the kingdom was a colorful drab. There wasn’t a single surface in the corridors that hadn’t been painted on, however, the life around him seemed extremely boring. He had gone to Rhys and Az’s room to see if they would join him on his meaningless stroll through the palace but Rhys’ room was empty and Az had not even bothered to open the door. So that's how Cassian found himself loitering the corridors of the massive palace.

For a kingdom that is known to hide many secrets, there was very little restriction and boundaries for outsiders. He could have robbed the treasury and probably would’ve been welcomed inside. Not that Cassian would do that. Maybe.

Cassian stopped in front of massive doors that were painted on. There were various designs but the most common were of books. Cassian guessed it must have been the library. He also remembered Princess Nesta saying that she might be in the library. He smiled to himself as he thought about their interaction. He had never enjoyed troubling someone that much. The thought of having another spat with Nesta was more appealing than grilling Az regarding the loving looks Elain was giving him. 

Cassian rubbed his palms together just before he opened the doors. He looked around and found that he was right, it was a library. There were candles lit. Mother above they were so laid back.

He saw Nesta looking up at him with a scowl. “Haven’t you ever heard of knocking?” She asked him with a sour voice.

“Haven’t you heard of electricity? Lamps are much better than those wax candles. More efficient for visibility as well.” Cassian said as he strode towards where Nesta was seated and plunked down beside her. 

Nesta narrowed her eyes at him, a scowl still present on her face. “Yes I have. Father thought it was a waste of time to install them where they are not required.” Cassian looked at her stormy blue-gray eyes. They appeared to be hiding something big. Nesta noticed how he was looking into her eyes and she turned her head away from him. 

“The King, right? Whom we haven’t met yet. What should we expect, huh?” He nudged Nesta with his elbow, which caused Nesta to jump out of her chair. She glowered at him and Cassian stood up as well, towering over her. 

“You’ll be meeting him at dinner. Now, please move away so that i can leave.” She told him in a cold voice and started moving past him. Without thinking about it, Cassian caught hold of her hand. 

“But, I just came.” He said, trying not to sound desperate. 

Nesta looked him over once and scoffed at him. “And, I am leaving.” She left him standing in the library, without looking back, once again. 

---------------------------------------------------

Feyre didn’t want to go to dinner, but she had no other option as her father would also be present there. Feyre thought that the prince was extremely handsome and she really wanted to make a portrait of him. Unfortunately, he was an arrogant asshole. Feyre was wearing one of her best gowns laid out by Elain. 

She stripped down and stood in front of the mirror. There were bruises and scars all over from sparring accidents or whenever Tamlin was not in a good mood and would often hurt Feyre. Initially, she had not minded, but afterwards when she did protest, Tamlin had told her that she was overacting and was just weak. After that, Feyre had not said anything about it, no matter how much she hated it.

She scrubbed herself and wore the gown. She noticed she had lost weight, also the courtesy of Tamlin. Feyre wondered how she had let herself get dictated. She had also started drifting away from her sisters. They disapproved of Tamlin and Feyre was too damn stubborn. It was that which had caused Feyre to end up in such a colossal mess. 

There was a knock on her door followed by Elain’s soft voice. “Feyre, are you ready?” She quickly tied her dress and told Elain to come in. 

Elain entered and gave Feyre a concerned look. “Feyre, are you okay?” 

Feyre just shook her head and said, “I need some help with my hair.” Elain gave her a sad smile.

“I would love to help you, Feyre.”

----------------------------------------------------

Azriel was early. It wasn’t much of a shock to him. He never paid attention to looking good. He just appeared. And it wasn’t as if he needed to do anything to look good. 

After his encounter with Princess Elain, he had walked back to his room and replayed every single moment in his mind. He too deserved a reprieve and officially, he wasn’t on duty till the next day. And Cauldron only knew what he had stored for him. He waited nearby the entrance, not wanting to walk in alone. 

From behind he heard footsteps approach him. He turned to see Princess Nesta striding towards him. She held her head high as she regarded him. 

“Azriel. I believe we weren’t properly introduced in the afternoon.” He said as a greeting. She gave him a calculated look. “And I would also like to apologise for whatever Cassian said to you and will probably say in the future.” 

She smiled at him as she said, “Then I would like to apologise for whatever ways my sisters find to torment you. They tend to get a bit out of hand.” 

Azriel smiled back and held the doors open for her. From behind he saw Princess Elain walking hand in hand with another lady who could only be Princess Feyre, considering the similarities between her and Princess Nesta.

He bowed his head towards them. “Princess Feyre, Elain.” Elain’s eyes gleamed as she smiled. “Azriel. As you already know, this is my sister Feyre.” She turned towards Feyre who was looking at him with curious eyes. “Feyre, this is Azriel, one of the Prince’s companions.” 

Princess Feyre smiled back at him. She then glanced at Elain and then back at him. “I better go inside to check if everything is proper. Elain, why don’t you stay here and wait for the other’s to arrive?” Before Elain could respond, Feyre rushed inside, leaving both Azriel and Elain alone.

“So,” Elain started, swinging her hands. “Here we are, alone. Again.” Azriel hid his smile from her. “Apparently, this time I cannot trick you into taking a stroll.” She said, while smiling.

“Well, there is always after dinner.” Azriel offered softly. Elain looked up at him. “If you would like to.” Azriel added immediately, not wanting to overstep his boundaries.

She smiled up at him. “I would love to.” 

“Princess Elain, good evening!” A voice came from behind and Elain instantly stiffened. Lucien Vanserra came up behind her. Elain turned around to face him. Azriel couldn’t see her expression but he could guess she had a fake smile plastered on. “You were so busy the entire day, I couldn’t catch hold of you!”

“And you never will.” Az heard her mumble under her breath and Az disguised his laugh into a cough. Lucien looked up at him. 

“I’m sorry did you say something?” He asked.

Az pointed towards himself. “Me? No, I don't think so. You must be hearing things, Vanserra.” Az could see Rhys and everyone else walk towards them with one question lingering in their eyes. Why the hell are you talking to Vanserra?

Lucien looked at Elain. “I wanted to talk to you about the question I asked you yesterday. If we could go somewhere…” 

Elain flinched at his words and thankfully, Rhys came up beside her and said, “Aah, Elain. I apologise for keeping you waiting. Let’s go inside now shall we.” Elain nodded her head absentmindedly and shot an apologetic look towards Lucien. 

Lucien just glared at Rhys which caused Az to smirk. He wondered why he felt happy that Lucien couldn’t talk to Elain all alone. Maybe because he had found her to be a good friend.

-----------------------------------------------------

Nesta had been greeted by Elain's mystery man, Azriel outside the door. He seemed good enough. In the small greeting she had also gotten the other man's name, Cassian. 

She had been seated by a servant who told her that Elain had fixed seats for everyone. Her seat appeared to be the nearest to the head of the table where her father always sat. Feyre was sitting on the left side of Nesta with a seat empty in the middle, presumably for Elain. 

Soon, Elain entered the dining hall with Prince Rhysand at her side and his companions behind him. Behind all of them, Prince Lucien had also entered. 

Nesta had completely forgotten about him and Elain. From her side Feyre whispered, “I had completely forgotten that Prince Lucien was to be joining us as well.” 

Elain came and sat in between them as the others were led to their seats. “This dinner is already a nightmare.” she said as she took hold of a fork in her hand. She held it so tightly, her knuckles started turning white. From across her, Azriel saw and he smiled softly. Nesta saw that from far away in his seat, Lucien was also looking at Elain, however unaware that she was probably plotting his murder. 

Suddenly, Elain gasped. Both Feyre and Nesta looked at her while the others didn’t notice. Before Elain could tell them what happened, the King’s arrival was announced. They all stood up as the King entered the dining hall. Nesta saw that he was wearing one of his most elegant clothes. His jewel studded crown was atop his head, each jewel polished and cut to perfection. However, he was not smiling. He had stopped being pleasant after their mother’s death, 15 years ago. There were times when he would not even acknowledge any of them. He sat down on his throne-like seat at the head of the table and motioned for everyone else to be seated as well.  

Everyone was talking amongst themselves while dinner and wine was being served. After the servants left the hall, the King clinked his spoon to his glass, attracting everyone’s attention.

“I would like to welcome Prince Rhysand and his Inner Circle, Amren, Morrigan, Cassian and Azriel, to our beloved Kingdom.” He announced. Nesta took a sip of wine and sorted. “There is a motive behind this visit.” Nesta tensed. “The Mortal Kingdom and the Kingdom of Night will be forming a marriage alliance.” The sound of a spoon dropping came and they all looked towards Feyre, who was looking at the Prince with wide eyes. The King ignored her and continued, “The Prince may choose whom he wants to get married to. I hope you all enjoy your stay.” With that final statement the King sat down. Nesta let out a breath of relief. At least now, she could ensure that the Prince didn’t choose her. 

From the other side, Prince Lucien stood up, “Your Majesty, even I have an announcement that I would like to make.” The King regarded him carefully and then said, “Very well, go ahead.”

“Oh no.” Elain whispered from beside her. Then Nesta understood what was about to happen. But Lucien wouldn’t do such a thing right after the King had made that announcement, would he?

“After spending time here, I have come to enjoy this kingdom and it’s company.” Then he looked towards Elain who fidgeted nervously under his gaze. “And there is one person who has become very dear to me.” He then glanced towards the King and Elain was once again clutching her fork. “Your Majesty, I would like to ask you for Princess Elain’s hand in marriage.” 

A long duration of silence followed. Then finally, Nesta’s father said, “I would be glad to offer you her hand.” Prince Lucien had a triumphant smile on his face. “However, she will decide and tell you within two days if she accepts or not.” He continued. Elain looked up at her father in shock. “Sit down Prince Lucien.” He then clapped his hands and smiled. “Let’s start feasting.”

------------------------------------------------------

After the worst dinner ever, Elain was pacing in her room. 

Elain had left dinner as soon as possible. She had lost all sense in the afternoon while she was with Azriel. She knew she had made a mistake by being a bit too straightforward. But Elain couldn’t help it. Somehow, she felt as if she could truly be herself around Azriel, even though she barely knew him. Now she feared that she might have scared him off. He had barely looked towards her after Prince Lucien announced his intentions. 

And then there was Prince Lucien. Why did he have to make a gesture in front of everyone? In front of her father? Now they all were expecting an answer from her in two day’s time. She had begun spiralling in her thoughts when suddenly there was a knock on her door. She marched towards the door and swung it open. “What is it?!” She shouted before she could even see who it was. 

“It is us, your saviours, Princess Elain!” She looked up to see both her sisters at the threshold. Nesta had an amused smile playing on her face as Feyre was bowing down in accordance with her previous comment. Elain couldn’t help but giggle. 

Nesta moved forward. “And we come bearing gifts.” She held up her hand to show Elain an entire bottle filled with whiskey. Elain gasped with awe. She held out her hand and cradled the bottle close to her chest. Feyre held up her hand which also had a bottle of whiskey. “That’s all for you. Nesta and I will share this one.” Elain laughed this time and let them into her room. Nesta sat down on a wooden chair while Feyre dropped down on the plush sofa. Elain sat on the carpet leaning against Nesta’s legs. 

Elain opened her bottle and took a huge gulp of it, the whiskey burning down her throat. “Mmmm. Mother above, it’s been so long since I had a proper drink.”

Feyre had opened her bottle as well. “I believe the last time was when we took Prince Lucien to our beloved tavern.” She took a sip and passed the botte to Nesta. Nesta graciously accepted it and took a sip herself.

Elain groaned. “Ugh. I tried so hard to be nice, but I couldn’t. I don’t know why I ever thought it would be nice to befriend him.”

Nesta snorted. “What did you expect from little Tamilin’s best friend?” Both Elain and Nesta laughed while Feyre shifted uncomfortably. Nesta saw and bluntly asked, “What did he do now?” 

Feyre reached out and grabbed the bottle from Nesta’s hand and simply shrugged as she said, “Tamlin wants me to get married to him.” She started chugging whiskey from the bottle. Both Elain and Nesta looked at her with their jaws on the floor and eyes wide open. Nesta got up and left the room. She returned a few minutes later with another bottle in her hand. 

“We’re all going to hell anyway.”

--------------------------------------------------------

“Your Majesty.” Two voices came from behind. The King turned to look at the two men standing in front of him. 

“I believe there were three of you, weren’t there?” He said as he started moving towards them. The one with long hair smiled and said, “He decided to stay a bit longer and handle things over there.”

The King smiled at them. “So both of you failed.” He shook his head at them. 

The other man just replied, “Your Majesty we haven’t failed. We are nearer to success than we ever have been.” 

The King turned around and clasped his hands together. “Then soon, we shall strike the Mortal Kingdom. And then, my child,” he pointed towards the tall one, “You shall be named King.”

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[ashintheairlikesnow]

Tamlin stared down at the letter in his hand. He had been staring at it for a long time. The servants he could hear, whispering and hushed, out in the hall. Their masks may have blanked much of their expressions, but their eyes gave enough away, didn't they? It was almost over. Tamlin's own mask did not move; neither of them did, either the one affixed to his face, or the face itself. Grief at Feyre's death still beat dully within him and he wondered if he really had come to love a mortal so much, so fast.

There were two men who stood before him. One wore his foxlike mask easily, for all that Tamlin knew he would have clawed it off and taken half his skin with it, if it would have worked. The other, unmasked, smiled easily, dark wings folded behind him.

She dumped a winged man over our border to die, and you didn't even care. Were you the one who tore them off, at her command? Did you wonder what it would feel like, if done to you?

The letter had his nightmares written into every line, but… there was something else here. Something that would save his servants, save Lucien, save the Spring Court. He could not let them be taken as Amarantha's slaves. Tamlin knew the stories of how the Queen Under the Mountain treated slaves.

"Well?" Rhysand drawled the word out, turning one syllable into two, into three. "You have to admit the offer is generous. You lost the human woman, and still she offers to set your Court free if you come to her willingly. You could hardly have asked for a better outcome." Rhysand shrugged one shoulder slowly, a gesture Tamlin loathed. "The Spring Court answers to her, of course, but you see she's even given you leave to name a Regent."

"I'm surprised she gave so much slack to your leash," Tamlin snapped, eyes narrowed. "To come so far, and it's not even Calanmai. I thought you weren't allowed outside any longer. After you refused to kill Feyre."

Rhysand did not rise to the bait, but a pulsing swallow in his throat told Tamlin his aim had been true. "Her Majesty thought I made a fitting emissary today, since you will soon replace me."

Tamlin's eyes drifted back to the letter. She must have written it herself; the script was elegant and beautiful and yet there were jagged, dangerous edges to the swirling calligraphy. Amarantha, who pretended at a royal bearing but never quite had the patience for follow-through. Amarantha, summoning her new pet home. With the death of Feyre, all his hopes were gone. Even if Rhysand had refused, Amarantha herself had never even hesitated. She'd torn Feyre apart.

Tamlin shook himself all over, trying to calm his mind. Lucien could keep order, until things were settled. The Spring Court would not be left unattended, although even now he could see darkness pooling at the edges of the woods, hear the songs of the trees become muted and mournful.

It was over.

"I… accept Amarantha's offer of mercy for my Court. Give her my thanks," Tamlin said through gritted teeth." I will appear before her tonight, of my own will. I understand that the deal is done."

At first, Rhysand did not move, only raised one eyebrow. Lucien stepped up, effortlessly putting himself between Rhysand and Tamlin, fixing his good eye on Rhysand as his metal eye whirred, just barely audible. "The deal is done, Rhysand. If Amarantha finds this… generosity in her heart, my Lord will honor it."

"Can't wait." Rhysand's voice was nearly a sneer, but even he had thinly-veiled relief in his tone. "I've waited a long time for this." He spun around and stalked away. There was a scramble of servants as he passed through the doorway into the outside air, and winnowed himself away. All of them battling to not be touched by the High Lord of Night's awful darkness.

Tamlin grasped for words that would not come. He raised his eyes, looking slowly all around Rosehall's beautiful walls. Thinking of the gallery he had shown her. The first few smiles that he had brought out from Feyre's face. Discovering she could not read and writing limericks for her as a kind of gift, some way to break the ice between their races. Strange, to have so much of her reflected here when he'd really hardly known her at all. "Lucien. You will act as High Lord in my stead? I am… not sure how much aid I will be able to give, Under the Mountain. I don't know how much... power she'll give you."

"Yes." Lucien did not look at him. His red hair seemed dimmed, somehow. Tamlin stood there, for a long moment, trying to come up with something to tell his Court, some message to pass on. Words had never been an easy thing for him, and neither was giving up; but Feyre was dead and with her, all the hope he'd placed his own survival on.

"You will… say something, to all of them? For me?"

"Of course, Tam. I'll come up with something moving and eloquent. Everyone will be duly impressed. You'll be written into history as a great speechgiver, in the end." The humor was bitter, and Lucien's voice trembled in a way Tamlin could not bear to hear.

"I'm going to my rooms," He muttered, and turned to leave.

Lucien cleared his throat. "Tam…"

Tamlin paused, glancing sidelong at him. Rage boiled within his chest, a helpless child's rage at a world he could not change. "She sent an outfit," Lucien said, softly, pityingly. Tamlin could feel the edge of his claws pressing against his knuckles, wanting to tear and rip and kill. Would he ever have a chance to hunt again, down in the darkness? "You are expected to wear it. When you are… presented. Do you want me to go with you?"

"No. I want you here. I want…" He trailed off, thinking of her eyes. "I want someone to be safe." Tamlin paused, his jaw working, staring down at the floor. He tried to say something more. To explain, to even begin, what Lucien's friendship had been for him.

Finally, he simply growled wordlessly, crumbled the letter into a ball and threw it to the side, and stalked away. Lucien closed his eyes, good eye and metal, as the servants outside the door collapsed into murmurs, a mix of excitement - finally, the masks would come off! - and fear that, perhaps, Amarantha might not keep her end of the bargain at all. Amarantha's mercy was famously subject to her whims.

Finally, Lucien reached down and picked up the letter, gently unfolding it, reading it himself. What he saw there made his eyes flare, just slightly, and his face blanched. He looked the direction Tamlin had gone again.

"Shit."

He took in a few deep breaths, trying to calm his racing heart. Then he snapped his fingers, Alis appearing as if she'd waited her whole life for the summons, staring at him. He could see tear streaks on the bark-skin of her cheeks, where they trailed out from under her mask. "Alis, I need a new robe. And a dead chicken."

Alis nodded and hurried away. Lucien swallowed.

           I have a Suriel to catch.          

The outfit was simple, his usual shirt with a baldric, although the pants were tighter than he liked. He could hardly hunt in pants like this. Well, you're the prey this time, so no worry there. Really, though, even that wasn't so bad. What bothered him was what the outfit meant. The shirt, baldric, and pants were all the same flat shade of black. Tamlin wasn't exactly vain - well, compared to the rest of the fae, he wasn't - but he knew it did not suit his skin, or hair.

What was left of his hair, anyway. What wasn't in a pile on the floor behind him.

She was dressing him like a doll, in clothes that didn't look right and hardly fit, just because she could. He'd agreed, after all, to go to her tonight. Willingly. He would kneel before the Queen. His stomach flipped and he fought to keep himself calm.

The outfit wasn't completely flat. In certain lights he could see a silvery trace of letters and patterns, like tattoos. Like Rhysand. Tamlin fought back the urge to vomit. She was really piling on the subtlety, wasn't she?

He stopped before a mirror looking himself over. He'd done what she had ordered in her letter; used a knife to cut his long hair short. A bit of blond fell just over his eyes, but the rest was as close-cropped as he could make it. He'd put on the black outfit, down to a pair of newly-made boots in a leather so expensively fine that even he had never seen anything like it. His damned mask, the emeralds making him sick in their leaflike whorls, could never hide enough. It couldn't hide his disgusted sneer at himself.

The orders in the letter had been exact, and the threat had been precisely spelled out. Do what she says to the letter, or forfeit the Spring Court to her service forever. Everyone, down to the children, would be given to her will. There had been a very… detailed threat in there about what would happen to Lucien.

           I don't think he'll need his tongue any longer, unless perhaps you beg me to leave it as a gift to you. Perhaps he could use it on you. I of course will leave him his eye, so he can watch while you-          

"For my Court," Tamlin said out loud, in something just louder than a whisper.

He straightened the way the tunic laid over his hips, frowning at himself. The black washed his skin out to nearly nothing, even with his tan from time spent outdoors. He looked like a short-haired ghost of himself, with only his green-and-gold eyes a splash of color in his expression. Exactly what she intended. An eternity so far from the sunlight… he could feel himself withering at the thought. No more spring. No woods. No hunt.

As if Rosehall itself mourned, he heard cracking somewhere above, the sound of a mournful wind shifting the foundation of this very old manor.

Go on, then. He swore he could hear the manor itself whispering. Go be Amarantha's whore. Rhysand could use the recovery time.

He snorted. There was a sound outside his door, and he paused. He could see shadows through the crack at the bottom of the doorway. Feet. It must be Lucien.

Tamlin walked over as if to open it, but paused his with his hand on the door. The two of them stood, one man on either side, in a long, drawn-out silence. Tamlin never saw it, but Lucien raised his own hand, the red-headed man standing in silence with his fingers resting on the door in exactly the same spot as Tamlin's.

Finally, the shadowy feet simply turned and walked away. He listened to the footsteps disappear down the hall, and leaned his forehead against the door.

           It was never supposed to come to this.          

"I haven't got all day," A silky voice purred behind him. Tamlin spun around to glare at Rhysand, dressed in his own finery. One raised eyebrow told him Rhysand noticed the similarity in their outfits. Where the black suited Rhys, it washed Tamlin out.

           Mirror images. We're mirror images of each other. She's not going to let Rhysand go. She wants a set. Does… does he know she won't let him go?          

"How are you here? These are my rooms! Get out!"

"Your time is up. The deal is done, and you belong to Amarantha. Now." Rhysand smiled, languidly, and his tone dropped to something softer, a lover's voice. "I can find anyone who belongs to her, wherever they are. She asked me to come and get you. Apparently she thought you might waste time if left to your own devices."

Tamlin, never one to have ready words for any occasion, only growled, the roar of the beast an echo behind the sound. Rhysand, after a moment, simply shrugged again and winnowed the both of them away.

Amarantha had spared no expense for the celebration. Spiced wine poured from huge fountains. Guests simply dipped their cups as they saw fit and drank them full nearly to the brim, laughing at the droplets that found their way down the side of the glass to splash onto the stone floor. Tables groaned under the weight of delicacies from every Court in the kingdom.

Musicians played in the corner, a series of mocking mutations of the Spring Court's favorite melodies, changed into minor keys, slower tempos. Turning sprightly into seductive, and cheerfulness into lust.

When Tamlin entered the hall, the sound of the crowd quieted. By the Cauldron, there are so many of them here to watch me fall. He ignored their stares, the whispers behind their hands at his close-cropped hair that fell just barely over his eyes, his skin seemingly paler set against his black outfit, following Rhysand like a puppy.

He ignored most of all the familiar faces he saw mingling through the crowd, the members of the Spring Court who had chosen to suck up to Amarantha, to kiss the ring. Others who had stayed here for one reason or another, but with their masks intact. How right their choices seem, compared to where I am now. The High Lords were here, no doubt at least a few happy to witness his humiliation. Perhaps not, though; it was only a reflection of their own humiliation at her hands. It was their power she was using to hold him.

Everyone would have their stories to tell soon enough, Tamlin thought. His black boots dragged as he forced himself to walk forward, Rhysand falling behind to greet a courtier here or there. His mask slipped, just slightly, and he took in a sudden breath at feeling a hiss of air touch the skin underneath.

"Almost off," Rhysand muttered from just behind him. "Play your part, Spring."

"I fucking hate you, Nightmare," Tamlin snapped, but he kept it a whisper.

"You're going to hate fucking her more," Rhysand replied, that smug smile playing on his face once again. Tamlin fought back the claws that teased at the ends of his fingertips. He could have ruined Rhysand for Amarantha forever, he thought, and never batted an eyelash. Torn his mouth to pieces so he could never smile again. Ripped him apart where it mattered most to someone like Amarantha, left Rhysand's mutilated cock in her bed. Calm, Tamlin.

"High Lord Tamlin of the Spring Court!" Amarantha cried joyfully, announcing his entrance and calling every single fae to turn and look right at him. Tamlin's face burned with shame and he froze where he stood, stone heart a hammer in his chest. Her joy was evident, her bright eyes shone. He had never seen her wicked face so radiant. Tamlin clenched his hands into fists. "Welcome to Under the Mountain, where you will now make your home, by my side."

There was a curl of thought inside his mind, a whisper that did not belong to him. You'll writhe in my bed. Tamlin flinched, and felt Rhysand put a hand on his arm.

"I should have told you she does that, here," He murmured. There was something like sympathy in his face and Tamlin snorted, disgusted at the position he'd found himself in. He had never been one to beg for pity. He should have simply slept with her when she asked. He should have been her lover, until she tired of him. None of this had to happen. He'd done it all to himself. He should have protected Feyre, sent her away in time, gone to Amarantha and tried to bargain.

He should have torn them all limb from limb, all of the fae, left Under the Mountain a bloody mess with Amarantha's corpse as its centerpiece, to turn to bone and be buried. Let the mortals find them someday, when they were brave enough to breach the wall and see why the High Fae's presence was gone. His hands twitched. There was a hint of fur standing up, sharp teeth to bare. He could feel his claws-

"I won't have you do any of that without my permission," Amarantha said from her throne, and the welcome reassurance of claws and teeth just… vanished. He struggled to recover it, but nothing happened. His heart dropped to somewhere near his knees. Amarantha watched his obvious panic with delight.

"The Court of the High Queen of Prythian recognizes Tamlin, High Lord of the Spring Court. You may approach the throne," Amarantha purred. She crooked her finger to him.

Only Rhysand's soft nudge got him to move forward, each step like a clanging bell in his mind. He went to her, standing before her throne. Her crown, with its jagged golden spikes, was a thing of hideous beauty. Jurian's bone hung at her neck, and his eye looked up at Tamlin with some strange intensity from the ring on her finger. Amarantha was beautiful, in the way that certain venomous snakes are beautiful. Her hair was in a pile of elaborate, perfect braids, immaculately pinned into a pattern that nearly made him dizzy. Those wide eyes focused intensely on his. His remaining powers were wilting here, more as he stood before her and felt her magic settling into him, into his bones and under his skin. He wondered if Rosehall would simply collapse, without a High Lord to care for it.

What could Lucien really do? It wasn't his Court, and it was a Court under Amarantha's sway, now.

The smell of her was everywhere, a cloying vanilla touched with cinnamon. A sweetness with rot underneath. He felt drunk on it, terrified by it. She stood and leaned over just a little, put her hand out, rings up. "Kneel, Lord Tamlin. You are High Lord no more."

           What am I, then?          

He hesitated, but there was an ache between his shoulders and an unseen pressure that simply compelled him helplessly downwards until his knees cracked on the stone floor. He did not flinch, to his credit. He reached out, taking her hand in his, looking up at her as he slowly kissed Jurian's eye. It twitched, under his lips, and he fought back sour bile. "I am still Lord, my Queen," was all he said, but every seething ounce of hate he felt for her was in his whisper.

Amarantha smiled at him. The love in her smile was so genuine, so carefree and pure, that she looked like someone else entirely. This woman he could have loved, might even have helped ascend the throne. She could have fooled him for decades, with a smile like that. Centuries. He understood, now, how the High Lords had been so easily deceived. Her smile softened her, made her look almost like… but it was gone, replaced by the sneer he knew so well, saw in his dreams. Nightmares. She stepped back and sat back in her throne, several feet away. "All this could have been avoided if you had come to me in the first place, accepted my love for what it was without being forced. The Court of the High Queen's Consort could have wielded great power and influence."

"You know I could not do that." Why not? He'd doomed himself and Lucien and all of them in the end.

"No," She said thoughtfully, pulling her hand back. "You couldn't, could you?" As Tamlin went to stand, she shook her head. "No. Crawl to me on your knees."

In the hush of the court, he could do nothing else. His body was no longer responding to his commands, only hers. He felt fear, an icy stab through his chest, a stone settling cold into his stomach, as he crawled on his hands and knees the last few feet to kneel before her.

Was this why Rhysand never stopped helping her along with her schemes? Was his body truly no longer his own?

"The High Queen can show mercy," She said, now loudly, a performance for her court. Representatives of each court were there, the other five High Lords in attendance, Rhysand lounging in the shadows, as well as chosen courtiers. That vanilla scent was so heavy he felt himself gasping for air. "The Spring Court is free of its curse. But stand against me and the curse will be so much worse than his." She stood, making the most of every moment, tilting her hips to one side. Tamlin chose to stare down at her feet, realizing with a start that they were bare.

"Look up," She commanded. His eyes slowly rose, to meet hers. She reached down, ruffling her hand through his hair, smiling at him with that sparkling honest genuine joy. "I win, Tamlin," She said quietly. "You should have come here 49 years ago." She touched the side of his face, and his stomach twisted with disgust and… something else.

Something darker, and shameful.

Amarantha removed his mask, easy as you please, and dropped it onto the floor with a clatter. There were answering happy cries from those members of the Spring Court present as they freed their own faces. In Rosehall, he thought, Lucien must be pulling off his own mask, stepping outside into the air. Truly feeling the breeze on his face for the first time in fifty years. For you, Lucien. For the Spring Court.

"Stand, Tamlin. Rhys, if you will." He stood as he was commanded, feeling Rhysand at his elbow again, grasping it gently. Tamlin swallowed and looked down at the ground. They were all watching. Every inch of his skin felt like it was caked in shame and slime.

"Say it, Tamlin," Amarantha commanded. "Say I won. Make it loud enough for them all to hear. Let your courtiers take that moment back to your precious Lucien. Tell them what has happened here."

Tamlin felt Rhysand slowly turning him to face the crowd, but he was somewhere else, somewhere far away, trying to get a handle on how frightened he was. He'd never been good with words. He'd been better at war, but he wouldn't see any down here. Not the kind he knew how to fight.

He thought of Feyre's flashing eyes, her beauty, of the hope he'd had that she would be the one. He thought of her broken body, of his own servants carrying it away to be tended to. The sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach as she'd died, a mix of genuine grief at losing her and fear of what it meant for his own future. It had been his own fault, for not sending her back over the border in time. For letting Amarantha find her.

He had hesitated too long to obey. He felt the compulsion again, the ugly twist of pain between his shoulder blades, the way even his body wanted to do what she said, although his mind resisted.

"You win, Amarantha," His voice said, as if from a distance, muffled in his mind. Someone shouting down a long cave. "My time has run out. I could not meet your demands." There was laughter, from some in the crowd. Cruel, jeering laughter. The other High Lords, though, did not join in. Tamlin fought to hold his head high, and saw in Kallias, the High Lord of the Winter Court, an answering rage that made him wonder if he might still have an ally or two, after all.

"My mercy has been great, for your Court," She said smugly. "I will hold to it. The Spring Court now belongs to me, but I will let them live in a bottled land. Let Lucien play caretaker, Lord-in-waiting, whatever he fancies himself. We have quite the new world to build, my love. Take him to my chambers, Rhys, and wait for me." She turned to address the crowd. "My new paramour must wait patiently for my attention, of course. My heart is only for my Court."

The courtiers tittered and jeered and Tamlin's face was crimson. He had never felt so ashamed of himself, of his failures. He would have roared at them all, but no words came to mind. His hands hung empty at his sides. "Rhys, darling?" Amarantha's voice drawled. "You remember your first night?"

Tamlin saw Rhysand's jaw tighten, teeth gritting together. Some old pain flashed in his eyes. If he heard the scandalized whispers of the courtiers, he did not show it. His head was held high. Tamlin realized the inner strength it took for Rhysand to withstand this, day in and day out. "Yes, my Lady. I remember."

"Prepare Tamlin just the same."

Rhys bowed at the waist, his hand still on Tamlin's arm. "Come with me, Tam, or she'll order you to," He muttered. The usual sneering hostility was gone, replaced by a simple emptiness, something that echoed the empty space inside Tamlin's own mind.

Tamlin went, drifting like a boat loosened from its moorings. Only Rhysand's touch kept him moving in any particular direction. They made it to her chamber doors before Tamlin simply could go no further, shivering like a leaf. He felt a sudden sympathy with the animals he had once hunted in the wood.

He stopped in his tracks as Rhysand opened the door and gestured him in. He turned to look at him, unable to hide the panic. "I can't-"

"You have to," Rhysand said, softly. "I'm sorry for what is about to happen. Please believe that. If it's a comfort, you'll enjoy it, in the moment. She makes sure you do." That flash of pain again.

"I don't want to enjoy it," Tamlin's lips were numb. Rhysand pulled him in, and he stared around. What nightmares Tamlin had often took place in some version of this room, especially as the countdown to the curse's end had begun to weigh on him. It looked nothing like he imagined. It was beautiful in here, not nightmarish. Well-lit and with a crackling fire adding a bit of warmth. It was the sort of room he would have loved to give Feyre. Everything was finely carved, smooth and shining wood everywhere he looked. Bookshelves, a vanity with a large mirror, everything a Queen might want in her private chambers.

           Including you.          

"You don't get to not enjoy it. You don't get to control it." Rhysand was lost in some inner world. "You will have no choices to make here."

The bed was huge, and could have easily fit a half-dozen people sleeping in it or more. Silver like moonlight snaked up around the wood at each corner, to the canopy that let a filmy black veil, speckled with starlight, slightly obscure the pile of blankets and pillows within. The walls seemed to shift as he walked, patterns moving in the wallpaper, forming eyes, as though they were watching him.

"Do you sleep here?" He asked. He'd mocked Rhysand for what he was so many times. He'd never imagined he would be her whore, too. He'd always thought there would be enough time.

Feyre. I thought we had more time. I should never have kept you close to me.

"No. I have my own chambers. She doesn't usually like me to stay, after. Thank the Cauldron for that, at least."

"Will I have my own, too?" There was something to hope for. Privacy. He felt himself cling to the thought like a raft in a storm-tossed ocean. In war and in hunt, all things made sense. In this, it was all chaos, and fear, and helplessness. It had been so, so long since Tamlin had felt so helpless.

"I don't know. I assume so. I… need to get you ready, Tamlin." The sneer was there, but for the first time it occurred to Tamlin that it was not a sneer of hate or smugness, but something self-protective. The ugly superiority was a mask he wore, a shield, a protection against the harm she could inflict.

"Ready how?"

Rhysand closed his eyes, briefly, eyebrows furrowing together. "For your first night." He gestured to the bed, pulling Tamlin over to it. As he pulled a cord, the veiled curtain was lifted on one side, and Tamlin saw what he has missed when they first came in. What the veil had obscured just enough to hide it.

A band of heavy, ugly iron was affixed just above the headboard, and ran the full length of it. There were twelve small circles soldered in. From each circle hung a chain, which began as links of that ugly ironl but gradually changed, silver beginning to twine around and through until the last few links shone in the firelight. At the end of each chain there was heavily engraved, thick silver cuff with a hinge. The bands hung open like terrible hungry smiles, a chorus of watchers, ready for him.

Six sets of silver cuffs.

Tamlin pulled back and away from Rhysand, staring at him wide-eyed. He tried to call for his claws again, and nothing happened. Nothing. "I don't do that. Not even with-"

"You don't have a choice." Rhysand cut him off, frowning, that strange inward expression again. "You never get a choice."

"I don't want it like this."

"Good for you. She does. Get on the bed. Please, before she-"

           Do as you're told, Tamlin. Let him chain you up. Enjoy it.          

"Cauldron," Rhysand swore, softly. "She must be listening to us." They both flinched at her syrupy-sweet voice, as loud as if she'd been shouting inside their minds. For a moment Tamlin fought himself, tried to step back further, to get away.

The twist of pain in his shoulders hurt enough to make him grunt, and he stumbled onto his knees. Her magic threaded through every pore, that vanilla scent seeped into his nose until it was the only smell there was.

"Get up, Spring." Rhysand snapped. "It's not worth it. Focus on survival. Get through tonight, and the next night, and the night after that. If I can do this for fifty years, you can last for a few nights. And never stop planning for your way out."

"There isn't one," Tamlin said through numb lips, allowing himself to be dragged to his feet, moved into the bed. The mattress gave way invitingly underneath him as Rhys gently pushed him. He could feel the silk and fur and velvet of her sheets and blankets. Rhysand pushed him until his back rested against the headboard. He stared into Rhysand's face as one wrist was gently lifted above his head, trying to find some hint of his future in it. Rhysand was empty of expression, but his eyes were a wild shriek of pain.

The other High Lord's face was close to his, and Amarantha's orders murmured into the back of his mind. You're going to enjoy this. He felt himself stir, just a little, towards arousal, a sudden rush of blood between his legs, as Rhysand closed the shackles around his wrists.. He fought it back with a snarl of disgust.

Rhysand's eyes dropped, taking in the situation much more slowly than Tamlin thought strictly necessary, then drifted back up to meet his. "My beauty truly must be legendary," Rhysand smirked, the expression emptier than ever. "I told you she ensures that you enjoy it."

When Tamlin's furious eyes met his, the smirk gradually faded. Tamlin saw, for perhaps the first time in centuries, Rhysand making a genuine and unprotected expression. Worry for me. He wished just as quickly that he hadn't. Rhys leaned in, whispering into Tamlin's ear. "She hears everything. Learn to keep even your thoughts down. Just survive. If there's anything I know in the Night Court, it's ambition and scheming. You'll get out from under her, one day. We both will."

The silver cuffs flashed suddenly blue, and then the light faded again. They were molded expertly perfectly, to the size and shape of his wrists. Where the silver touched skin, he felt cold as ice. Tamlin understood snares in a whole new way. "She's dead, Rhys. This is all I am, now. There isn't any way out."

Rhysand gave him that same smug smile. "Not with that attitude, there isn't. I'll tell her you're ready."

"Do you have to announce it, Nightmare?" Tamlin snapped. "I don't see why I have to be an animal on display-"

"That's what you are," Rhysand drawled, the protective sneer back on in a flash. His wings ruffled, almost. Like an animal going into a defensive crouch, Tamlin thought. "You are her animal. Her victory. Her display." He stood back up, brushing imaginary dust off one dark sleeve. He shouldn't be so pale, Tamlin thought. Fifty years of darkness would do that. He blinked, looking down at the shirt, baldric, and pants. At the boots. He thought of how Feyre would have considered the cost of each piece of fabric.

"I'm still wearing my-"

"She likes to cut them off," Rhysand snapped at him, pointing off to the side. Tamlin, knowing even as he did so that it was a mistake, looked. On a side table next to the bed lay yet another thing he'd been too distracted to notice. A double-ended dagger lay on the table. One end was a shimmering, sharpened silver. There was a space in the middle that seemed to be iron or some other, lesser metal. It had a grip carved into it. The other, where the hilt would normally be, was simple wood, narrowed and sharpened to a deadly point.

Tamlin knew ash when he saw it.

Rhysand stalked away. When the door slammed behind the High Lord of the Court of Night, Tamlin was left alone, chained to her bed, feeling his body working hard to betray him.

He could see himself in the great mirror that hung over her vanity, dimly through the veil, and quickly looked away. As he shifted in the bed, trying to get into a position that did less to pull the fabric of his pants so tightly over the maddening, stubbornly developing arousal he was trying to ignore, the throbbing that grew each time he moved his wrists or tried to shift position or, Cauldron forbid, actually thought about Rhysand chaining him to the wall above the bed (how does she control even this, with an order?), some flicker of reflected light caught his eye above him. He looked up.

The entire top of the bed, on the inside, was one large piece of mirrored glass.